Destiny's Arrow
by sarahannmarie123
Summary: She is dangerous, calculating, and arrogant. But she is also kind, beautiful, and a warrior without equal. What will happen when the famed Hero of Fereldan and the Prince of Mirkwood run into each other? Will the two Elven cultures clash, or will they be able to work together? Set in Middle Earth during the times of the Hobbit, two years after the blight.
1. Chapter 1

**Legolas **

The sound of battle roars fiercely through the sky like an enraged dragon as I make my way down the river after the escaped dwarven prisoners. Orcs chase after them as well, attempting to strike at them with their weapons from afar without falling in. Remarkably not one has landed a blow past the barrels the dwarves have encased themselves in, and their attempts to stall them have been remotely unsuccessful due to the swiftness of the current.

I cannot say the same.

Although my targets are not Oakenshield and company, I take out any orc I come across, sometimes killing multiple at once. Most of which are dead before they can identify their killer, others only catch a glimpse and then an arrow or a dagger is lodged deep within their skull.

As I near the doors, my bow firm in hand, I notice Bolg leading the orcs that are assaulting the dwarves. Our guards lie dead at their feet. They appear desperate to kill them, but the dwarves are fighting them off quite well considering they're cornered with the doors closed.

The one Tauriel spoke with earlier—Kili I believe his name is—has managed to climb out of the water to reach for the lever that can open the doors. However, an arrow has struck his calf, leaving him writhing on the ground, groaning in pain.

_I must recapture them quickly. They cannot go free_.

Swiftly, I maneuver my way further down the river, cutting through and shooting down any foe that dares block my path. After jumping to the other side of the river yet again, I land on a flat rock. I look up in time to see an elven arrow pierce an orc that's about to strike Kili with an axe. Without looking, I already know it was Tauriel. No one else in our guard could achieve such a shot from that far a distance. My suspicion is only confirmed when I glance over my shoulder and see her and a few other guards a few paces behind me.

But then I see something else.

An arrow whizzes past Tauriel and me from farther back.

I follow its path only to see it strike the lever hard enough that it opens the doors. The dwarves immediately pull Kili back into a barrel, and they escape down the river. I glance back at the direction of the shot and a foreign elven woman with long black hair runs past Tauriel, a bow in hand, shooting at the orcs closest to the dwarves and taking them out with lethal precision. Her lithe body dodges any attacks the orcs nearby attempt to make, her movements as fluid as the flow of water and her blue eyes just as clear, showing no fear or struggle.

Before long, she has caught up with me. But sooner than she can pass me, a handful of orcs launch an attack on us from both sides, stopping her from moving forward. She growls something under her breath and the next second, the two of us are back to back as we take out the orcs with a mixture of our bows and daggers.

Between opponents, I catch glimpses of her in action. Not once does her stance falter despite her being a foot shorter than Tauriel and engaged with a much larger enemy. And the aura of confidence around her remains constant as well, which I strike as odd considering her lack of armor or clothing around her midsection.

Soon, the two of us are down to our last orc. I end mine quickly by launching forward, plunging my dagger into the orc's eye, and once he has fallen, I spin around and draw my bow and arrow.

Panting for breath, my gaze focuses on the woman before me, my arrow aimed straight at her heart. Her bow and arrow are drawn as well, directed at me in kind. For a moment we merely stare at each other, and then Tauriel and the guards surround us, their weapons drawn and pointed at the stranger.

Realizing the disadvantage, the woman glances around. She then drops her weapon and laughs. "I bet you ten silver you will regret this later, prince," she utters with an odd accent I'm unfamiliar with, her eyes glued on mine. "I guarantee it."

"Enough." I lower my bow and turn to Tauriel. "Tie her up and confiscate her weapons. We're taking her back with us."

* * *

To my surprise, the way back was quiet—minus the grumbling from the captured orc we found.

The woman never said a word. She only looked at me once and smirked. A blizzard raged in her eyes, one of which the intensity I've never seen before. But she did not complain, not even when she was thrown into her cell and stripped of her weapons. That coldness is all I can think about as I stare down at the lifeless orc before Father now, the decapitated body lying motionless in a pool of its filthy blood—his earlier words lost in my thoughts.

"My, how unbecoming," the woman's accented voice suddenly purrs behind us. Father and I both turn to face her. Her wrists are tied behind her back and two guards stand at her sides. The corner of her lips are curled up with contempt as she eyes the two of us. "For a king to close off his kingdom while the rest of the world is in peril, no wonder the mortals hold no respect for us."

"Quiet, girl! You will speak when spoken to," one of the guards snap and drag her closer.

Father narrows his eyes at her, his eyebrows furrowed. "Who is this?" he asks and looks to me.

"She is the woman we captured at the gates. She helped Thorin and his men escape," I explain.

He quietly snorts through his nose and refocuses on her. "You are not one of us yet you address royalty so casually. What have you to say for yourself?"

"Only that if you do not release me immediately, Smaug and his underlings will be the least of your worries," she snarls.

One of Father's eyebrows quirk up. "Bold words from a prisoner. Are you perhaps unaware of your own predicament?" he asks.

She grins. "The fact that I still remain bound shows that you are the one who is unaware, your highness. And you would be wise to heed my words, lest you anger me further."

"What have I to fear from a lone woman?" Father laughs. He then makes his way to leave, and waves the woman and guards away. "Lock her up. She will be dealt with later."

Before he can walk away, she chuckles. "Tell me. Who do you think of at the mention of the wood elves of Thedas, Fereldan in particular?" she asks and Father stops. He looks back at her, a quizzical look on his face. His eyebrows crease together as he considers her words, and then they rise and his eyes open wide. The woman smiles. "Ah, it seems you've finally understood. Good," she murmurs and looks down at the ground. She then looks up and glares at Father. "Now unless you wish me to destroy your kingdom from the inside out, you will untie me immediately! Am I understood, Thranduil, oh _noble_ king of Mirkwood?" she shouts, authority coating her voice like moss does a rock, sending shivers down my spine.

Father jolts and everyone looks to him. "Release her," he utters, his eyes fixated on the woman.

The guards stare at him in confusion. "Your Majesty..?"

"I said release her! Now!" Father yells and scowls at the men. I watch him just as perplexed. When the woman is free from her binds, she rubs at her slender wrists and Father bows his head deeply, an act I have rarely seen in the past. "My humblest apologies, Warden. Had I known you would be gracing us with your presence, such misunderstandings would have been avoided."

"I'm certain," she scoffs and crosses her arms, her cool gaze scanning the others in the room, myself included. "Based on the expressions of your men though, they have yet to catch on to the situation. Allow me a proper introduction," saying this, the woman lowers her arms by her sides and stands tall, her small hands balled tightly into fists. Her firm gaze is directed straight ahead, a power hidden deep within their depths. "My name is Aranel Mahariel, Grey Warden, descendent of the Dalish Sabrae clan, and Hero of Fereldan. A pleasure to make your acquaintance." She bows her head then refocuses on Father.

Surprise racks through me.

_Hero of Fereldan? No. This is the woman who single-handedly defeated three dragons and decimated almost half a horde of darkspawn on her own? The woman of legend from across the sea? It can't be._

No matter how hard I look at her, the words don't seem to add up. How can a woman so small and lean, whose leather armor barely covers her curves, be the woman of legend? Certainly she jests. For although her stunning looks match the description I've heard of her in stories, such a powerful woman would not be captured so easily… unless that was her plan all along, knowing such an act would happen.

Her words from earlier suddenly replay in my head. "_I bet you ten silver you will regret this later, prince. I guarantee it."_

Dread fills my stomach. The statement only furthers my suspicion. _How I hope I'm wrong._

"Pray tell. What has brought you to our woodland realm?" my father inquires during my quiet reverie.

I jolt back to the present moment. He raises a good question. Why would the Hero of Fereldan be in Middle Earth in the first place, if her words are indeed the truth?

She purses her lips and stares at Father with disdain. "Up until my capture, I was lending my assistance to the dwarves serving under Oakenshield. After all, who else better to ask to fight a dragon than a warrior who's already slain one?" She pauses and takes a few steps to the side before refocusing on Father and sparing a quick glance at me. "Unfortunately however, my job was interrupted not once but **twice**. The first being when my company was imprisoned within your walls, and the second… well, that's self explanatory."

"Again, I offer my sincere apologies. We were unaware you were among their company," Father attempts to reassure her.

"True. This I can understand," she replies and crosses her arms, accepting the notion. Her eyes become harsh again though as she stares down Father. "What I do not understand however, is why even after hearing Thorin's request you refuse to lend aid without having him indulge your selfish desires."

At these words, Father's taken aback and it can be seen in the way his eyes snap wide open.

She smirks in response. "Yes, I overheard your conversation," she continues. "Your walls are far less secure than you realize. Sneaking in was easier than unlocking a broken chest. But that should be the last of your concerns. From your conversation, I gather you do not understand the severity of the situation. I come from a land who has just overcome a blight—one that united all of Fereldan for the sake of taking out the enemy and nothing more. Yet here you stand, refusing to lift a finger, hiding in the shadows like a cowardly rat while the rest of Middle Earth crumbles at your doorstep. And for what? Thorin refusing to lend you a hand as you did to his people in the past?" she nearly spits out the words, her anger apparent in her scrunched up expression, ruining her regal features.

She takes a couple steps closer to Father and the guards prepare to intercept her, but Tauriel holds her hand up to have them hold.

"If their attempt fails, how long until Smaug and his men are banging at your doors?" the Warden persists. "Do you think you can simply lock yourselves away and take the army out later yourself, that they will not dare come for you? Do not be a fool. By then, their forces would have multiplied and you would have no allies in sight. You're only hope is to gather your forces and fight now, otherwise your kingdom will fall along with the rest of Middle Earth!"

Silence descends the hall. No one says a word. Her strong words weigh heavily on all of our shoulders.

Father and the Warden lock their gazes on each other. The anger I can see in her blue eyes is beyond simple annoyance—there is disgust, rage, and profound disappointment. In Father's, there's alarm, resolution, and a hint of concern.

The two of them stare at each other in this manner for several moments before the Warden's gaze softens and she takes a step back. "My apologies," she whispers. "I did not intend to vent my frustration on you. It is your decision how you and your people handle this situation. I let my feelings get the best of me. For that, I am sorry."

Father takes a deep breath and his lips form a thin line, clearly biting his tongue. "Your words are not lost on me, Warden," he says and closes his eyes. "I will… _consider_ them."

Without another word on the matter, he reopens his eyes and shifts his concentration on the guards.

"Fetch her belongings and return them immediately," he orders and the two guards bow and rush to complete his command. He then looks at the woman. "Warden, to make up for the treatment you received here allow me to prepare a boat for you so you may catch up with your companions. My son, Legolas," he motions to me, "will accompany you along with our captain of the guard. While the boat is being prepared, please join us in a feast to formally welcome you into our kingdom. In the morning, you may set sail."

As soon as he's finished speaking, the guards return and hand the Warden the weapons we confiscated. She hooks the daggers on the straps on her thighs and slings her quiver full of arrows over her shoulder. She then stares at Father and weighs his words carefully, her bow tight in her hand. "Very well, if that is what you wish," she permits, although I sense the reluctance. The way she avoids eye contact only proves it.

"Legolas," Father address me then, capturing my attention. "Please show our honored guest around then guide her to her resting quarters. I imagine she needs her rest." I nod and bow slightly, acknowledging the acceptance of my assigned task. Father then walks away and motions to his attendants. "Come. We have much to prepare," he says to them, and then they disappear down the nearest steps.

The guards and Tauriel excuse themselves as well, and I signal for the Warden to come along with me. She does so quietly, and I watch her in the corner of my eye. "You remember what you told me earlier when we captured you?" I ask and focus straight ahead, thinking of Father's earlier reactions.

"Yes," she murmurs.

I dig into my pocket, and then hold out my fist for her. She opens her palms and I place ten silver coins in her hand.

With an amused snicker, she follows me down the rest of the hallway, ten silver pennies richer and a smug smirk plastered on her pretty face.

* * *

**_I never thought I'd write a fanfic for Dragon Age and the Hobbit, but here I am. *Sigh* This site leads me to strange places, but at least my imagination enjoys the view. Hope you liked this! I have no idea how I feel about it to be truthful. If you have any comment or suggestions, please let me know either in a PM or review! Thanks and happy reading! :)_**


	2. Chapter 2

**Aranel**

A feast fit for an entire village now lies before me on the Great Hall's elongated wooden dining table. The grand assortment varies from fish, bread, approximately six different types of meats, fruits, vegetables, and an endless supply of red wine in kegs at the center.

There are only thirty or so elves in the room, all clad in luxurious clothing, looking elegant and regal like the elven tales of old the Keeper has only told me about as a child. Most of which I assume are nobles of the highest order or serve as advisors for the king—the superior look they have in their eyes tells me most have probably never broken a sweat in their life.

The prince—Legolas I believe his father said his name is—sits across from me, also appearing quite at home as he bites into some white bread despite the grandiosity of the entire spectacle. His long blond hair falls gracefully past his shoulders, complementing his fair skin and pale grey eyes—all of which make him look more ethereal than many of the other elves present, although every single one appears more elegant and beautiful than the elves back home. We both sit at the end of the long table, right next to King Thranduil, who sits at the head and is conversing with some of the other nobles. I have yet to say a word since the feast has started, and find myself staring down at the silver plate covered in delectable looking food with disdain.

If the Keeper were to see our people living in such a fashion, holed up in some giant building, squandering our wealth when so much will more than likely be wasted, I assume she would be thoroughly disappointed. I certainly am, although I dare not voice it or risk Thranduil ordering to take the food away and replace it—_Creators, I wouldn't be able to handle it if such a thing happened._

Reluctantly, I take a bite out of a red apply I grabbed, enjoying the moist and fruity taste that fills my mouth. When I swallow, I notice the older male elves sitting beside Legolas eyeing me quietly. They whisper something to each other and then the one closest to Legolas, a lean man with a dark receding hairline, makes eye contact with me. "Warden, if I may be so bold to ask a question," he says, and all the nobles nearby, including the king and prince, stop eating and shift their gaze on me.

"Go ahead," I nod.

He leans forward a bit. "Is it true what they say? That you alone have slain three dragons?"

"Yes," I reply.

The elf furrows his brows, a look of incredulity crossing his face. "Pardon my rudeness, but _how_? Surely you must've had some form of help."

The corner of my right eyebrow arches up. "No, and why would I?" I ask. "If one can read all the moves of their opponents, you shouldn't need help. Dragons are no exception. In fact, they're far more predictable than others. All you need is a weapon and be able to move fast so you don't get caught in a wave of dragon fire. Nothing more."

Legolas shakes his head and looks down at his plate. "You speak as if it is a simple task…" he says.

"Oh, no. I never said it was simple," I respond. "Slaying dragons is not for everyone, nor do I recommend it. As a Warden though, it is different. It is expected of us to rise to the occasion. Had I never become one, such feats may have never been accomplished."

The elven woman beside me shifts in her chair, angling her thin body in my direction. "How is it you became one?" she questions, her blue eyes fixed on me. "There have been many a rumor, but none knows the truth."

"What rumors have you heard?" I ask. _That's probably the best way to start…_

"Well, the most popular one is that you took out a large group of darkspawn on your own and the Grey Wardens instantly recruited you. Others suggest you found them in order to seek revenge for the death of a clansman," she explains, and other elves mutter in agreement.

I purse my lips. "Well, those aren't exactly wrong, but they're not completely right either."

"So the truth…?" the man who questioned me earlier persists.

"The truth doesn't matter," I say and look out at the curious elves. "I became a Grey Warden in order to stop the blight. How that came to be, I'll leave it up to you to decide."

The man bows his head once. "Fair enough. My apologies, Warden."

"There's nothing to apologize for. It is only natural to be curious."

With that, I finish my meal in silence, listening to the elves talk quietly amongst each other.

* * *

**Legolas**

Music, songs, and joyous dancing fills the Great Hall now after the conclusion of the feast. The nobles and advisors appear to be enjoying themselves thoroughly, yet as I scour the room, my eyes do not see the guest of honor. Over the crowd, Father gives me a stern look. He apparently has noticed as well. Pursing my lips, I search the hall once more to no avail. _Perhaps she has stepped outside for a moment…?_

With this thought, I exit the Great Hall. I climb the nearest steps and continue to search. As I make my way down the pathway leading to the guest rooms, I see her. She's louging on a stone railing, watching the revelry below.

"There you are," I say as I approach her. She looks up and stares at me, her blue eyes glimmering in the faint moonlight. "You wandered off. Do the festivities not meet your approval?"

"I've never been one for parties," she replies. "All the forced smiles give me a headache." She pauses and looks me over, a spark of curiosity apparent in her eyes. "Tell me. What do I owe the honor of the prince's company?" she asks.

"I was merely checking on you. You are our honored guest, and it is my duty to see to your well-being while you are in our care."

She laughs softly. "Why you're father insisted on that is beyond me. Does he really think of me a gentle flower that cannot care for myself, I wonder?'

"I'm certain he meant no such offense," I assure her.

The corners of her lips curl up into an amused smile. "As am I."

Aranel returns her gaze to the people below. I sit down beside her on the railing, a thought crossing my mind after the earlier events of today. "Would you allow me a question?" I ask after debating if I should or not.

"I may," she answers.

I shift my body toward her and she faces me, her blue eyes attentive but not unwelcoming, more curious than anything. "Why did you leave your homeland to help ours?" I question. "Most would simply turn their heads and look the other away. Yet, here you are."

Her ruby lips form a thin line and she looks down at her lap, her line of sight far off. "If Middle-earth falls, the rest of the world will suffer as well," she responds. "Perhaps not immediately—but in time. As such, it would be careless to turn my back on others suffering, especially when the people who are affected come to me directly." After saying this, she smiles and lets out a faint laugh. "Besides, it's apparently my job to save people's lives. How such a conception formed is beyond me."

"You saved your countrymen's lives. It's only natural that others would turn to you in times of dire need," I tell her. "They are merely looking for guidance from someone who was once able to restore hope when there was none."

She nods and stares into my eyes, a flicker of light and power hidden in the depths of the blue abyss like the first star in a darkening night sky. "Yes, but wouldn't it be grand if there came a day when they wouldn't need to do that? When they could turn inward to themselves instead of waiting on others, and decide for themselves what needs to be done, even if it goes against another?"

I imagine I must've stared at her for a long moment in silence because in the next, she pats me on the shoulder and stands up, a smirk playing at her lips. A slight feeling that her words held deeper meaning crosses my thoughts and weighs on my chest, but I dare not consider it further, fearing she has some form of ancient insight.

Glancing over her shoulder, she bows her head to me once, the smirk gone from her lips. "Goodnight, dear prince," she says to me, her eyes now cold and devoid of emotion. "If your Father asks, I have retired for the evening. The feast was grand, but I now need my rest. I will see you all in the morning."

Just like that, Aranel disappears down the walkway to the guest rooms without looking back.


	3. Chapter 3

**Aranel **

The full moon is now high in the sky, and I lie in bed awake, staring up at the white raised ceiling, tracing my fingertips gently across the cool, iron blade of my dagger.

The silence around me feels odd, unfamiliar, and dull. I suppose this should be no surprise considering my past company. For more days than I can recall, my nights in Middle-earth have been far from quiet. Whether it involved fighting for our lives, the dwarves rough housing with one another, or Bilbo grumbling about our selection of food, the nights at camp were always lively—some nights it was thoroughly impossible for me to shut my eyes and rest.

Yet here I am, lying in a warm bed in silence, unable to sleep now more than ever before.

My last memory of the dwarves and the hobbit plagues my thoughts. I can't help but wonder if they have made it out of harms reach yet or if any more of them are injured. I took out as many of the enemy as I could before running into the prince. But that large goblin creature—Bolg—he is still out there, and he is not the kind to give up. So long as he lives, he will hunt them, even to the deepest depths of Middle-earth and back again.

The thought makes my nerves twitch.

Gandalf recruited me for one sole purpose: to help defeat Smaug and keep the company safe. If Bolg catches up to them before they can find safety, how am I going to explain my absence to the old wizard? Moreover, although Thorin and I may clash heads, I do not wish to see him or the rest of his men dead—and Creators know he's had far too many close calls with his carelessness.

I could always try and escape to prevent such an outcome, I realize. Creating a distraction among the guards should be easy enough. It's how I got into Mirkwood in the first place. The balcony attached to this room could serve as my exit and the forest would then shroud me from sight. Finding the boat Thranduil prepared for me would be the most daunting part of the task, but it should not be too far down the river. Maenor could easily eye it from above and lead me to it, wherever that rascals flown off to this quiet night.

Truly the only downfall of this would be Thranduil's discovery at sunrise.

Although I do not fear or respect the man, such actions would incur his wrath. I would not be welcome here again—not without scorn or a exchange of harsh words. And alas, as much as it pains me to admit, I cannot risk that. Should this mission go awry, we must be able to call upon them for aid. Not to mention that as the representative of the elves of Fereldan, I would be setting a horrible example for my kin. If the clan elders were to catch wind of such behavior, I would never hear the end of it. Marathari alone would lecture me to our deaths.

With this thought in mind, I roll onto my side, let out a deep sigh, and shut my eyes, bidding sleep to come sooner rather than later in hopes for an earlier sunrise.

* * *

**Legolas **

The light of dawn has only just begun to shine upon the land when next I wake. I ready myself for the journey quietly, being careful not to forget any piece of my armor lest the trip welcome more battle into our midst.

The bare essentials were prepared the night before and should be in the satchels on the horses Father arranged to take us to the docks. All that is left to pack are what I'm willing to carry on hand—namely my two daggers, my bow, and a quiver of arrows.

When all of this is set, I sit down on my bed, slip on my boots, then make my way down to the Grand Hall—armed and ready to travel.

Upon descending the main steps, I see Father speaking with one of his advisors. He looks up after hearing my approach and swiftly waves him away. "Ah, there you are. The Warden is outside. Come," Father says and gestures for me to follow him, the advisor following a fair distance behind us with a brown cloth firm in his arms.

Father and I walk side by side down the main hall leading to the gates, our steps evenly paced and confidence exuding from the both of us. His gaze is fixated on the path ahead, and there's a stern expression on his face.

"Tauriel will remain here while you guide the Warden from this place, as I have new use for her," Father tells me as we walk, not once looking my way. "Do not part with the Warden until she is reunited with Thorin and company. During this time, you would be wise to appear your best while you escort her. To have her as an ally would be most beneficial for the Woodland realm. Do you understand the importance of this task, my son?"

Father stops and we exchange looks. From the spark in his eye, it is clear to me that there are some inner clock workings spinning in his head—formulating some plan I've yet to hear about.

"Yes, Father," I nod and gulp down my inner concern.

"Good," he responds.

We then continue on our way. The guards at the end of the hall open the gates and light filters into the hall. Outside Aranel can immediately be seen looking to the side by two saddled white horses, a brown hawk hovering above her and about to land on her right arm. Her black hair falls loosely past her shoulders and down her back like yesterday; however, there's a bit of a wave to it and the morning sunlight emphasizes the stark contrast between her dark hair and fair skin more than before. The bizarre leather armor she sports only accentuates this fact by showing more skin than I believe necessary, especially around her midsection. But I bite my tongue on these thoughts as soon as Father steps toward her.

"Warden," Father greets her with a bow, capturing her and the hawk's attention with a quick jolt.

The hawk perches itself on her forearm, and the two watch Father and I carefully, as if inspecting us for the first time. Their blue and gold eyes are fierce, but not threatening—merely curious as they stand their ground.

Father folds his hands in front of him, his chin raised high and apparently unshaken from their intense stares. "It is the day that we must part ways as you continue your journey forward," he continues in a modulated tone, the kind of which he always reserves for formal matters. "Although your stay was brief, it was an honor to have you in our care. Should the day arise when you return, you are most welcome within these halls."

Aranel shifts her body to face us head on. "Ma serannas. You are very kind," she replies, her foreign accent thick on her tongue.

"My son, Legolas, will guide you from this place as promised. However, before you go, please accept a parting gift from one kingdom to another." Father pauses and motions to the advisor that had followed us. The man steps forward and holds out the piece of cloth he carries to the Warden. She steps forward and lifts the cloth to reveal some arrows wrapped within. "Let these arrows crafted by the most skilled smiths of Mirkwood serve you well, for your path will no doubt be dark and treacherous," Father explains. "May they strike down your foes and lead you to victory."

Aranel stares at the arrows for a long moment before the hawk jumps onto her shoulder and she lifts them into her arms. "I will accept this gift gratefully," she says with a bow, "although I regret I have nothing to offer in return save for my thanks."

"That is more than enough." Father insists. "With this, I must bid you farewell, Warden. Until we meet again. Safe travels to you and your companions."

* * *

After parting with Father, Aranel and I enter the forest on horseback. We trail down the river leading to the docks, the morning sun only just starting to rise fully into the sky. Her hawk—Maenor she calls him—is perched on her shoulder, glaring at me. His gold eyes haven't left me for an instant since I saw him at the gates. It's a first, as birds are typically fond of my presence. But this one appears to feel nothing but derision. Although it disturbs me, I dare not question it. After all, everything about this Warden and her mission are strange. It would be no wonder if her bird be a bit odd as well.

As soon as we reach the halfway point to the docks, Aranel pulls slightly at her reins to halt her horse and Maenor's gaze is finally interrupted. I stop beside her and she looks at me, coldness reflecting in her blue depths. "We are far enough from the gates now, prince," she says, her voice low and coated with annoyance. "You can turn back around. I have no need for a guide. Maenor knows the way."

Maenor squawks and flaps his wings once, apparently in agreement.

"No," I insist. "It is my duty to accompany you until you are reunited with your companions. And that I shall."

Aranel narrows her eyes at me and frowns. "A stubborn one, aren't you?" she grumbles and has her horse continue down the river.

I blink a few times and then have my horse follow her, my eyebrows furrowed and frustration filling me to the brim. "You really do not care for me at all, do you?" I ask.

The most perplexed look crosses her face. "You pointed an arrow at me, tied me up, and threw me in a prison cell. How that would ever add up to me liking you, I have no idea."

"I did what I had to do," I persist and have my horse ride in front of hers so she would look at me again. "Would you have done any differently if you were in my situation?"

"It does not matter what I would've done in your situation," she retorts. "The fact remains that you were the one who did it. Simple words and small gifts will not change the consequences of such actions, although your father clearly hopes otherwise. Unfortunately for him, unlike many other maidens, my heart is not so fickle as to be bought with costly objects or gestures."

With that, Aranel guides her horse around me and keeps moving.

I watch her and shake my head. "You are impossible!" I exclaim.

"And you are **slow**," she quips without looking back. "If you must escort me, at least keep up."

And just like that, Aranel continues down the path of the river, her hawk glaring over her shoulder at me again.

_Women…_


	4. Chapter 4

**Legolas**

A couple of hours later, Aranel and I make it to the docks. We are waiting on the ship for the captain to settle some minor affairs before we set off. In the mean time, Aranel is leaning on the ship's railing, looking out at the water. Maenor is on the railing beside her, plucking at his feathers. "It's nice, isn't it?" I ask and take the free space beside her.

"Hm." Aranel's gaze remains fixated on the surface of the water. A slight breeze sways her dark locks around her thin shoulders.

I rest my elbows on the railing. "Have you sailed on the water before?" I persist.

_No, that's a foolish question. Of course she has, how else would she have come here from Thedas?_

Aranel doesn't respond. It's as if her mind is elsewhere.

_Does she even know I'm here, I wonder?_

"Warden…?"

"Attempting small talk won't work on me, Prince," she says, her attention still straight ahead. "So save your breath."

Sparing a quick smirk over her shoulder, she steps back and walks toward the Captain's Quarters.

"I imagine you might need it."

Stunned by her curt response, I furrow my brows and look down at the deck. When I look back up, uncertain how to reply, she's disappeared behind the door and Maenor is staring at me. His gold eyes bore into mine. He then lets out a loud squawk that makes me flinch and turns away, giving me the cold shoulder just like his unusual master.

* * *

Our ship is finally on the move in the early afternoon. Aranel has been in the Captain's Quarters for two hours or so now. Meanwhile, I've been sitting out on the deck. Maenor rests on a crate beside me and has once again fallen into his habit of glaring at me, not once looking away. I've done everything in my power to try and communicate with the creature, to figure out why it despises me so, but to no avail. There's been no response, only scornful glares. I attempt to reach out to touch the bird as a final effort, only to have the bird nip my finger.

I pull my hand away quickly and stare down at it. A single droplet of red blood forms at the tip.

"It's useless," Aranel's voice calls out to me, and I look up. She's just exited the Captain's Quarters and is walking towards us, an amused smile on her face. She stops beside Maenor and scratches the top of his head with two fingers, for which he allows gratefully. Her gaze then shifts to me and coldness fills her eyes. "As much as your people boast that they have a connection with nature, it does not compare to the elves of Fereldan who actually live out in the wilderness. Maenor can sense this. As such, your attempts are futile."

Frustration sparks within me. "Are you saying that I lack something?"

"Yes and no," she answers and pauses to push a stray black hair behind her ear. "All that stops you are the stone walls you and your people have barricaded yourselves in, and that air of thick superiority and ignorance you all emit. Change that, and you're golden."

I jump to my feet and glare down at her, anger now burning deep within my chest, my fists clenched tightly at my sides. "You insult my people?" I snarl.

Aranel's eyes widen and her jaw drops for a moment, clearly taken aback. Her expression then becomes harsh and full of annoyance, as if I'm a bloodsucking leech that refuses to part with her flawless luminescent skin. "No, it is you who insult mine," she retorts and narrows her blue eyes at me. "I know not what you know of the elves of Fereldan, but we do not live in luxury as you and your people do. Many of us are lucky to be alive, to have a place to call home, or a meal for the day. It is because of this suffering that people like myself are able to communicate far better with nature and its inhabitants. To presume that you can compare your abilities to ours despite your good fortune is more of an insult than a slap to the face, especially when all I was doing was answering your previous question, prince! Nothing more."

Aranel's sharp response pierces through me, striking me to the core. My anger rises, and then it dissipates quickly as I discern the full extent of her words.

I had insulted her and her culture without realizing it. Moreover, although her words were harsh, it is clear from her expression she meant no ill will, yet I assumed otherwise. She was merely providing insight from her and her culture's perspective—one that has had a great deal of unknown hardships that as an outsider I may not possibly understand. I insulted those hardships, her history, and her people, but she would've said nothing had I not jumped to conclusions.

Shock and regret builds inside me at this realization.

Aranel appears to notice and lets out a sigh. She transfers her attention back onto Maenor and pets him on the head again, ruffling up his feathers softly. "You and your people are in need of a reawakening if you wish to regain the former connection with the earth you and your ancestors once had, Legolas," she continues, her tone now relaxed and coated with a tinge of sadness. "You must be able to put material objects aside, step out of your walls, and accept the wilds with open arms lest you continue to be led astray to your ruin. This is not meant as an insult, but a simple observation and a warning based off of my peoples past experience. That is all."

For a long moment, I merely stare down at the floor, grasping the news of our distant kin's suffering. After a long pause, I finally look up. "What happened to them that led to their current state?" I manage to ask.

Her eyes grow dark, darker than a moonless night. "Our homeland—Arlathan—fell to war against the humans several ages ago, long before I was born," she says. "Most of our culture was lost. Those who survived were either forced to live in the lowest parts of human cities as slaves and servants, or escaped to the wilderness to live in exile. I was born to a clan of the latter. The Dalish—that is what we are called. It is because of this that I found Maenor and retain my connection with the wilds unlike many others."

I shift awkwardly in place and bow my head. "My apologies. This must be painful to talk about," I utter, the gravity of her anger suddenly making sense.

"No," she shakes her head and smiles slightly. "It is the duty of my people to preserve our ancient lore and share it with the rest of our kind, regardless if they hail from our ancient homeland or not. For we are the last of the elvhenan, and never again shall we submit."

* * *

**Aranel**

Our ship arrives at the docks of Esgaroth—otherwise known as Lake-town—a couple of hours after the conversation I had with Legolas. It's a bustling fishing town apparently, full of grubby looking shems struggling to get by. All of the ones at the docks eye me in a peculiar fashion—as if in awe—and they bow their heads with respect before quickly shifting their eyes away.

The confusion that courses through me at this sudden change of pace leaves me blinking in wonder until Maenor lands on my shoulder and screeches loudly in my ear. I flinch and nudge his beak away with my hand. "Stop that," I grumble. "I know. We'll get back to the task at hand."

Pursing my lips, I inspect the area. The prince is currently thanking the captain and dealing with the formalities on the ship. Meanwhile, I'm on the docks. The sun is only just starting to set, causing the sky to turn a faint shade of pink and purple. The coloring mixed with the overall lighting creates a red glow over the water below. It's an odd contrast with all of the wooden buildings leading to the center of town, and it makes it look more like a lake of blood rather than a body of water.

The few people who roam the walkways past the exit of the docks all appear to be in a hurry to go home for the night, as I'm sure they have a right to be—no doubt they've all had a long day by the weary expressions on their faces. Several walkways, however, remain unused. The encroaching darkness casts shadows over these specific walkways, perfect for experienced rogues to disappear in and could no doubt serve as the perfect opportunity to slip away from a certain nosy prince.

As soon as the thought enters my head, I send Maenor to scout the area for the dwarves and hobbit, eager to know their location. Shortly afterward, he returns, circles around me, and flies toward the heart of the wooden town. Legolas then walks up beside me. "This way," I tell him and the two of us exit the docks.

Maenor leads us down several walkways quickly, forcing Legolas and I to run. There are many twists and turns, and bridges over canals. And just as Legolas falls slightly behind, Maenor and I swiftly make a drastic turn, then another, and then disappear into one of the many darkened alleyways. Panting heavily, I lean against the alley walls, Maenor perched on my shoulder. I watch the way I came from quietly, but hear or see nothing that would indicate the prince managed to catch up with us.

Feeling smug about the matter, the corners of my lips curl up into a smile.

_Serves that spoiled prince right… Now there's no more distractions._

Letting out a faint laugh, I move to turn the opposite way down the alley and suddenly sense a presence leap from the roof above and land right in front of me. I gasp as Legolas' tall figure stares down at me, his grey eyes boring deep into my own. "You can't lose me that easily," he says, a smirk playing at his lips.

I frown and cross my arms. "Apparently not," I grumble and put my hand to my forehead. After a moment, I let out a loud groan. "Look, go home! I can find the others on my own," I insist and wave my hands in front of me with frustration.

"I cannot. It is my duty to accompany you until you are reunited with your companions—"

"And that you shall. I got it." Digging my fingers through my hair, I shake my head. "Honestly. Worse than the bloody Antivan crow with your blighted persistence," I mumble.

And then the two of us jolt at the sound of something.

It's the sound of some kind of large, armored creature moving on the roofs above, further down the alley. The two of us look up and stick to the wall, our breathing now hushed.

Orcs—a lot of them.

They're jumping across the roofs of the buildings, armed and bloodthirsty. Legolas and I watch from the shadows as the group passes, counting their numbers quietly in my head. When the last of them are gone, I turn to him, my eyes just as wide as his. "Was that…?"

He nods and looks at me. "Yes. Let's go."

Just like that, the two of us rush out of the alley in pursuit of the orcs. Before we can catch up with them though, I hear a crashing sound and screaming. Maenor screeches overhead and flies over towards the source—a building beside a canal. Legolas and I rush over and see orcs at the entrance. Our arrows rain on the enemy, piercing one by one as we ascend the steps and take out those we see on the roofs nearby. Once we're at the top, inside the building I see none other than Kili, Fili, Oin, Bofur, Tauriel, and a few human children. Kili is over in the corner of the small room, lying down and wailing in pain—no doubt from the wound he got back at the river. Tauriel stands defensively in front of everyone, her bow drawn, and the other dwarves standing directly behind her. The children cower in the other corner in tears, hiding under a table.

Tauriel snaps out of her daze when Legolas and I step inside. She immediately lowers her weapon and rushes over to Kili, her slender fingers caressing at his sweaty face. Another orc attempts to storm in through the door at that moment, but Legolas takes him out quickly by stabbing him in the eye with an arrow and then kicks him out over the edge and into the canal. Grasping tightly onto the same arrow, he looks to us. "Come. We must hurry!" he shouts to Tauriel and me, and then rushes out of the building and out of sight.

Tauriel looks conflicted over the matter as she shifts her eyes from the door to Kili. Her pale hand lingers over Kili's face. I watch as she gulps down whatever hesitance she's experiencing and orders the dwarves to help her tie Kili down. She starts uttering in her foreign elvish while gathering certain herbs. Meanwhile, I watch the door and take out any orc that finds its way to the entrance, piling the bodies on the doorstep or shoving them down to ground below by use of my daggers. When her words get louder, I see Kili get a little better and hear him mumble a few things to her, at which she smiles and turns away. I walk over to them and look down, expecting the wound to be gone since no doubt she was using some form of elven magic. But it's still there. "Your magic is very strange…" I mutter and glance over the wound. "And most _ineffective_."

Everyone's eyes fall on me as I situate myself beside Kili, who's watching me inquisitively, his dark eyes slightly glazed over.

"Allow me to take over," I say to both Kili and Tauriel.

Without waiting for their consent, I gently hover my hands above the exposed area on his leg. The damage is deep, but the poison has been cleansed thanks to Tauriel's methods. All that's left is to close it up.

Concentrating my mana, magic flows through my fingers and envelops the wounded area in a blue light. Kili shudders and then slowly relaxes. When the wound is healed, I scan over him. He's already looking better. His eyes at least are no longer glazed over.

"There. Better?" I ask.

He nods several times and I smirk.

"Good." After patting him on the shoulder once, I face Tauriel, who's looking at Kili's leg curiously. "You, stay here and guard them while I'm gone," I tell her, and she refocuses on me. "I will take care of the enemies outside."

With that, I dash out the door and over the pile of orc corpses on the steps before the others can stop me. Running through the walkways of Lake-town, I shoot and take out any orc that crosses my path or line of sight, my bow twanging loudly as the numbers quickly exceed my original expectations. Maenor flies by my side, assisting me whenever an orc gets too close by tugging at its hair or pecking at its head enough to distract it and give me some time.

When I have slain perhaps thirty of the filthy creatures, I round a corner. A glimpse of a large, bulky figure enters my field of vision, and then there's a sharp pain in my head… and I fall into darkness.


	5. Chapter 5

**Quick Author's Note: **From this chapter forward, the story follows the timeline of that in the book. Also if you leave a review, I will return the favor gladly!

* * *

**Aranel**

I'm being carried—I can sense it past the darkness. By who, I don't know. All I know is that something soft lies beneath me and it's moving.

_Is it fur? Am I on some type of animal?_

I cannot be certain.

The throbbing pain pulsating through my head has cast a veil over most of my awareness. This same pain weighs down heavily on my eyelids, making it almost impossible to open them.

Almost.

Desperate to understand what's become of me, I call upon all of my willpower and force my eyes open just like I forced the doors open to Fort Drakon the night of the final battle for Denerim. It's blurry at first, and my focus goes in and out, but they're open—a major success within itself.

I can see the ground beneath me, and as I thought, I'm on some type of animal, being lugged around like a sack of luggage. My bow is tucked under my left side and a person rides on the animal to my right, their leg a pale, grotesque grey color and covered in nasty looking scars. I glance up, and passed the haze, I decipher the person to be Bolg. His attention is focused on the road ahead, a fierce scowl on his scrunched up face.

I look back down at the ground. The pain in my head is growing more intense the longer I try to keep my eyes open. It's to the point where it's putting me into a cold sweat and my grasp on reality is slowly slipping.

_I have to get away somehow before I lose consciousness again, otherwise Creators know what this creature has in store for me._

Summoning the rest of my strength, I call upon the power of my ancestors in my head, gather my mana in my fingertips, then tilt towards Bolg and send a blast of electricity at his chest.

He shouts and is flung off the side of the animal. The wolf then panics and I'm thrown off as well.

Tumbling to the ground, I do a quick roll and crouch low to the dirt, grasping for my daggers latched onto my thighs since my bow separated from me during the fall. Bolg recovers his stance and the wolf steps closer to its furious master, its fangs bare and a low growl rumbling in its throat.

"Accursed, she-elf!" Bolg bellows and draws his sword, the corner of his lip twitching as he glares at me.

I happily return the favor.

He then roars and takes three steps. Two arrows then strike his bicep from the right side, causing him to stumble to his left.

My body relaxes and I look over to see Legolas jump off a white horse and draw another arrow.

Bolg deflects it with his sword and shouts something in an unfamiliar language. I take advantage of the distraction and sheath my daggers, creep over to my bow, and draw it. While Legolas closes the distance between him and Bolg, engaging in combat with his daggers, I shoot a few arrows at the wolf's side, who yelps and retreats a few steps back before it can try to join the attack. Legolas manages to slice his blade across Bolg's chest and the orc follows his wolf. Cursing loudly, he climbs onto his pet and the two retreat into the forest.

Panting heavily, another wave of pain clouds my vision, forcing me to kneel. I lift my hand to my head and feel a sticky wetness. Confused, I lower my hand and past the blurriness, I can see blood on my palm.

"Warden!" Legolas shouts and rushes to my side. "Hold on. Everything will be alright," he tries to reassure me.

I feel his large hands grasp my shoulders, and then the world spins and darkens.

* * *

Next I wake I'm lying on the ground. Trees tower over me and fragments of warm sunlight filter through the branches and leaves to dance across my face. When I look to the side, Legolas is there, sitting by a stream a few paces away with Maenor. His attention is on the crystal clear flowing water, and his hands are firm around his bow.

I sit up and put a hand to my aching head, the pain nowhere near as severe as before, but enough to still be disorienting upon first getting up.

"Don't even think about it," Legolas says abruptly, and I jolt. I look over at him and we meet eye contact. His grey eyes are stern and uncompromising. "You need to rest."

"I _need_ to hunt some orc," I grumble and search for my bow and quiver, which are leaning on a tree a few feet away.

"Would you listen?" Legolas shouts and stands up, causing me to flinch and refocus back on him before I can get up. His face is contorted with anger, a rare occurrence for the noble elf. "You were gravely wounded. If you go now, I doubt even the mighty Hero of Fereldan will last another blow!"

His words wound my pride more than I would like to admit. "What would you have me do?" I retort and clench my fists to control my growing frustration. "Let him go?"

His expression softens. "Of course not. But before you pursue him, you need your rest. You can't go anywhere until your head injury heals. It's too risky and you won't be able to make it very far. We can hunt him after you've recovered."

I purse my lips and consider his point. Although I have the will and strength of a thousand men—if not more—a part of me does not doubt that Legolas may be right. I might not get far in my current condition. After all, Bolg did quite a number on me. It's a struggle simply to remain sitting up. He must have struck me with all of his strength—that nug-humping, shite of an orc.

But he is also injured. That is the silver lining in all of this, for it means that the company is safe—for now. Not to mention Bolg's ranks are decimated, so no others will seek revenge for the time being. In a few days time, that may change though. Once they've reformed their ranks, they're free to attack the others again. Do I want to risk it? No. Must I? Perhaps. Do I have time to argue about it? Probably not.

I groan and dig my fingers into my hair, indecision and annoyance racking through me. At this moment, I feel a cloth like material wrapped around my forehead. It's soft to the touch like it's made of silk. My eyes widen and I turn to the prince.

"Prince," I address him, and he perks up. "You tended to my wound?"

He stares at me in bewilderment and then nods once.

I scan over him and sure enough, underneath his green and brown armor and clothing, I detect a small piece of silver fabric beneath the others that can be none other than the same silk-like material wrapped around my forehead.

Pursing my lips, I shift onto my side and lie down, my cheeks and the tips of my ears burning hot.

"You're not half bad," I mutter then hold my breath and clench my eyes shut, dreading the embarrassment coursing through me.

Silence fills the air and my nerves tingle uncomfortably.

"My apologies, what was that?" Legolas asks teasingly. "I must be hearing things. I'm afraid I might be going mad."

I scoff and roll my eyes, my body finally relaxing. "Princes… Always have a sense of humor," I grumble, but the corners of my lips curl up into a smile.

Legolas chuckles and then I drift off to sleep, allowing the darkness to take me so I may explore the Fade for another night.

* * *

**Legolas**

Five days have passed. Aranel's recovery has been slow and perplexing. Her injuries heal far slower than my own, and she requires sleep like that of Men. It is the first I have encountered one of our race with such unusual characteristics. I have wanted to question her about it, but whenever the thought comes, she either has fallen back asleep or the timing feels wrong.

While I consider this topic further by the stream this afternoon, I hear Aranel's footsteps behind me. "Legolas," she calls, and I turn to face her. She's a few paces away, staring straight at me. She grasps her bow in one hand, and her quiver is slung over one shoulder with Maenor perched on the other. "It has been five days," she says, her voice low and impatient. "I have rested as you requested, but it has been long enough. I'm going to go after Bolg. And after I've killed him, I will enter the Lonely Mountain. I will stall my search no longer."

The intensity in her blue eyes tells me she will not yield anymore. She has come to a decision—and whether I support it or not—she will follow through with it.

"Then allow me to accompany you," I insist, and confusion overtakes her. She tilts her head slightly and watches me silently. "You are still wounded and have yet to reunite with your employer," I explain. "You need all the help you can get, and my duty still stands."

Her lips press firmly together and she stares down at the ground, considering my offer carefully. After a quick groan, she rubs at her neck and points at me. "Just… don't tell the others," she says. I smile and she turns on her heel to enter further into the forest. After several steps, she glances over her shoulder and motions for me to follow. "Come. Or I'll leave you behind."

* * *

We've tracked Bolg's tracks a fair distance the past several days, although it seems he's attempting to lead us in circles. We're now resting along another stream to recuperate our strength before continuing forward. Aranel is knee-deep in the water catching fish, her bow drawn and her eyes scanning the water vigilantly. I sit beside the flames watching her, one of her victims already cooked and resting on a rock by the fire. Skillfully, she once again shoots an arrow further upstream and strikes a fish. The carcass floats to the surface and she picks it up by grasping the arrow.

With a triumphant smirk, she steps out of the water and walks over to me, the trophy firm in her hand. She offers me the new catch. I shake my head and pick out a piece of lembas from my pocket.

She shrugs and sits down beside me. "Suit yourself," she mutters and tosses the extra fish to Maenor, who's on a larger rock several steps away, before picking up the one she's already roasted. "Would you mind answering me a question?" she asks while she inspects her meal.

I look at her and blink a few times, the new development unexpected. Although I have had many questions I have asked her in the past, not once has she asked anything of me until now. "Go ahead," I urge her, eager to hear what she has to ask.

She shifts her body toward me. "Why do the dwarves dislike the elves here so much?" she questions. "I've only heard minor details from Thorin and the others, much to my utter displeasure. However, I've yet to get a full explanation."

Memories of the past associated with her line of questioning immediately flicker through my head, reminding me of the panic and chaos my people and I saw that day not so long ago. The way the city of Dale was so quickly reduced to rubble and smoke is still vivid in my head, the screams of the people it affected even more so.

I press my lips together and focus on the stream, dismissing the disturbing images. "When the dragon first occupied the mountain, my father would not risk sending our men in to fight it," I explain. "He deemed it to be a fool's mission, and one with far too few merits to send many of our men to their deaths... The dwarves have never forgiven us for it."

"Clearly." She scoffs and I shift my attention on to her again. She's staring at her fish, a far off look in her eyes as if recalling an old memory. "When I first met Thorin, I had gotten perhaps two words out before he tried to shove me out the door," she says. "That's when I knew I was no longer near Fereldan anymore. It was... strange."

"Are you and your people on good terms with the dwarves in your land?"

Her eyebrows furrow. "No, I wouldn't say that. But we're not on bad terms either," she answers. "A majority of the dwarves lock themselves up in Orzammar, their kingdom they've built underground. As such, we don't typically communicate with one another. The only exception was during the blight when our people fought together. They all got along well enough, I suppose. But there are no grudges between us. I don't believe there ever will be considering the continuous lack of communication."

I sigh and look up at the blue sky above us. "I doubt that even after a thousand years, the dwarves will forgive us." _Although that doesn't particularly bother me… _

Aranel shrugs. "Who can say?" she replies. "We will never know, for death will have claimed us long before then. Such is our fate."

My heart sinks and I turn to her, words failing me for a long moment. "Do you… possess the gift of foresight?" I hesitantly ask.

Her eyebrows perk up in a puzzled manner. "No?" she answers.

I glare at her and stand up. "Then why say such a thing?"

She stands up as well, her mouth slightly agape. She scowls at me, as if I was the one who said something wrong, and then her face suddenly relaxes. The color in her cheeks fade faster than a rose suddenly facing the dead of winter, and her eyes grow to the size of small apples. For a few moments, her mouth opens and closes without any words coming out, similar to a gaping fish. "Do you… and your people…. still possess immortality?" she finally manages to whisper, a hint of distress and skepticism present in her words.

I blink a few times, not fully understanding what she's asking. Then realization hits me. Alarm settles deep within my stomach like a giant boulder weighing me down. Everything that I couldn't understand a few days ago suddenly makes sense. "You do not?"

She shakes her head slowly, not once looking away. "No," she murmurs and then looks down at the ground. "Our… immortality was lost after the fall of our homeland," she explains. Her lips remain partially open as if there's more that she wants to say but can't.

I glance around the area in the silence, the disbelief almost knocking the air out of me. It seems unfathomable, enough to almost knock me off my feet, yet the emotion I see in her eyes now—the grief and heartbreak in particular—is even more so. I grasp onto her hands and look into her eyes, understanding the shock and confusion she must be going through. The usual confident sapphires are suddenly timid and mystified like a small child's, a look I never expected from the legendary brave elven woman I met less than three weeks ago. "Perhaps there's a way to recover it," I attempt to reassure her, hoping there's something I can do or say to comfort her, to ease her and her people's pain even a little.

She pulls away and shakes her head. "I do not know the way…. None of us do. It was lost long ago along with the rest of our culture," she says.

"My father may know," I persist. "After this mission, let us look into it together. We may yet be able to save you and your people."

She flashes me a sad smile and her eyes become glossy with tears. "Ma serannas," she whispers and blinks the tears away. "You… have no idea how much that means to me… to all of us."

Aranel strokes her slender fingers through her dark hair and steps back, blinking quickly several times and shaking her head.

"I…need to go clear my head… _alone_…" she says, avoiding eye contact. "I will be back before dark."

Without another word, Aranel walks into the forest… and for the first time since our journey began, Maenor and I do not follow.


	6. Chapter 6

**Legolas**

It is not yet dawn; however, the bitter early morning air already nips at my fingers. Aranel is panting and sitting on a rock beside me—Maenor perched calmly on her slumped right shoulder.

Throughout the past several days, the three of us have gained considerable ground on Bolg, who appears to now be heading around the lake in the direction of the Lonely Mountain.

During this time, Aranel has pushed herself farther than one would expect without the life of Eldar, almost to a point that would lead me to question her 'good' judgment. Her current labored breathing is only one cause for my concern, her injury and the weary look in her blue eyes being others.

Despite all of this, she has said little more than a few words since our last conversation about her people's plight, and not one of them being a complaint or a request to take a rest… until now.

At this rate, I fear she will soon collapse. Her very pride may be the death of her if she insists on trying to maintain this rapid pace, one that would fell even the most resilient of mortal warriors.

Appearing to sense my growing concern, Aranel looks up at me and we meet eye contact. "I'm _fine_," she says with a cold glare, her blue eyes boring into my own like two sharp daggers.

I glance off to the side toward the lake and press my lips firmly together, biting my tongue before she can attempt to start another argument. If there is one thing I have learned during the short time I have spent with this stubborn woman, no matter what I say, she will not listen, even if it's in her best interest.

After a moment, Aranel sighs and stands up. Possibly understanding my resolve, she says nothing and ruffles the dark strands of her hair at their roots. While she does this, a loud roar suddenly thunders in the distance over the lake accompanied with the faint flapping of large wings. Aranel and I immediately perk up and look to each other, our eyes equally wide, the roar echoing in my ears.

"That was…"

I'm unable to finish.

Aranel's eyebrows scrunch together and she rushes passed the trees until she reaches the shore of the lake, her bow firm in hand. I follow behind her, and sure enough, over the dark body of water and in the shadows of night, a large dragon can be seen flying across the far side of the lake from the Lonely Mountain toward Esgaroth.

Aranel clenches her fist around her bow and glowers at the beast. "Smaug…" she growls, and then her gaze turns to the nearby town, perhaps only an hour or so away thanks to Bolg's incessant circling techniques the past few days. She then faces me, the fire that I thought had dimmed from exhaustion returning and threatening to set the world ablaze once more. "Come. Bolg can wait," she says and shifts her eyes onto Smaug. "We have a dragon to slay."

Before I can answer or object, she takes off for the town—Maenor soaring proudly at her side.

* * *

By the time we arrive in Esgaroth, the dragon has already flown over the town twice, setting fire to several of the town homes and its tail destroying a portion of the Great House. The majority of the townsfolk are rushing to the boats and paddling toward shore, the trees there shining like copper and blood with leaping shadows of dense black at their feet. Only a handful of men remain to fight. The archers' bows twang loudly in chorus with the trumpets call at the watchtowers and walls, attempting to strike the dragon from their positions while the others throw water on the flames that arise from their homes.

As Aranel and I reach the center of town and the heart of the commotion, a man dashes past us and shouts, "Run! Run for your lives!" before he disappears in the fleeing, shrieking crowd behind us and toward the docks.

Aranel merely shakes her head and scans the air for Smaug, continuing to move further into the chaos. He roars and as soon as we catch a glimpse of him swooping overhead, Aranel stops, grabs my arm, and tugs me quickly around the nearest corner before fire rains down on the ground where we stood. Cursing something under her breath, she dashes out as soon as the fire passes and draws her bow. "Dread wolf take you!" she shouts and shoots an arrow, her bow twanging loudly. Her arrow bounces off of Smaug's side along with several other arrows shot by the nearby archers. Their remnants fall to the ground, broken and shattered to pieces, completely useless against his scales. Aranel frowns and her eyes narrow. Apparently unconvinced her arrow cannot puncture him, she attempts to draw another.

"It's no use!" I stop her and grab her arm, forcing her to look at me. "Smaug has but one weakness. Only a black arrow can pierce through his near impenetrable armor."

Aranel's fierce gaze shifts back to Smaug and then to the nearest watchtower. Her eyes settle there for a moment and a smirk forms on her face. "We may be in luck yet," she says and motions with her chin to the tower. I follow her line of sight and see a dark-haired man on top stationed at a windlass, his eyes fixated on the dragon. A black arrow's loaded in the crossbow and ready to fire at his command. He only needs a good shot.

Smaug roars again, and Aranel quickly hands me her bow and quiver. "Stay back," she says, and then steps out from behind the building and into the open. She walks onto a bridge over the nearest canal and faces Smaug as he approaches the town overhead once again. Her eyes close and she starts moving her hands about in a slow, rhythmic motion. A white light of which I have never seen swiftly wraps around her hands and smaller particles hover around her. As the mysterious magic builds, so does my worry as Smaug grows ever closer.

When he is almost in reach of her, I almost drop her bow and run out to grab her, but then her eyes suddenly open. She thrusts her arms straight out in front of her and the white light shoots out of the ground below Smaug.

A sheer white wall forms around him, trapping him. And although he can shriek, he is frozen, imprisoned within the near invisible force.

Aranel keeps her arms out in front of her, a harsh, strained scowl on her face, and glances at the man on the watchtower. "Shoot it now, you fool!" she yells and the human looks down at her. He rushes to take aim. When the windlass is set, a loud crack rips through the sky as he lets loose the arrow and it strikes deep into Smaug's side. The dragon bellows in pain as it pierces his heart and the magical walls surrounding him fade.

The dragon starts to fall, its body flailing wildly.

Aranel remains in place while the people who are nearby run for cover. I catch only a glimpse of the human on the watchtower dive into the water on the other side of the wall to narrowly escape being hit by the dragons tail before Smaug hits the ground, causing the town to shake violently as it crushes the homes it lands on.

When the shaking stops, steam rises up from the water, clouding most of my vision. Passed it, I can see Aranel, still standing on the bridge of the canal, standing tall as she stares down the dragon's corpse only a short distance in front of her, a triumphant smirk on her face.

* * *

**Aranel**

Small camps have formed along the shoreline of the lake by midday. Of those who escaped the dragon attack, the sick and wounded almost outnumber the healthy. Bard, the shem that shot the dragon and now the town's hailed hero, has managed to rally the townsfolk despite the tragedy, a natural leader in the midst of chaos if I do say so myself—no thanks to the useless town mayor who merely cowers behind his guards and whines about everything like a spoiled Orlesian noble. The worthless shem even had the nerve to not only bad talk Thorin and the others, but also has taken a large hoard of the scarce amount of food we managed to recover from Lake-town's smoking remains! The Creators own luck must have shone down on him this day, for before I could shoot an arrow down his throat to see how he'd like the taste of iron and wood, Legolas and Bard pulled me away.

Since then, Legolas and I, along with Tauriel, Fili, Kili, Oin, and Bofur—whom we reunited with after the battle—have spent most of our time assisting the refugees in any way we can. This mainly involves Legolas, Tauriel, and I using our healing arts, and the dwarves performing small errands such as fetching firewood and the like.

"There. That should do it," I mutter as I finish tending another injured old man, who apparently barely escaped with his life after climbing out of some rubble that fell on him.

The old man grasps for my hand, his grey eyes almost lighter than his receding hairs, tears forming in them and glistening in the afternoon sunlight. "Thank you, my lady. Thank you. Thank you!" he whispers and kisses my hand.

I nod and pull away uncomfortably. Without looking at the human again, I stand up to move toward my next patient a few steps away—a young woman with some burns down the side of her thin arm. Before I approach her and I'm assuming either her daughter or younger sister, I pause and scan the area.

Legolas and Tauriel are further down the shore healing separate patients, and the dwarves are running back from the woods carrying another load of wooden blocks at Bard's request.

While watching the dwarves scurry about, I find it odd that they haven't taken off for the mountain yet. My portion of the job finished after the death of Smaug, for that alone was what I was hired to help with and why I remained with the group. The dwarves on the other hand cared deeply for Thorin and served him proudly. One would think that after the suggestion that they may be dead, they'd run off to the mountain to see for themselves—but they haven't.

It's strange.

Even I would like to know the rest of our party's conditions, as I'm sure they do—this much is evident in their eyes. But the difference is I know I'm most needed here at the moment and because of this I stay. For although Legolas' and Tauriel's magic can ease the shemlens pain and tend injuries and illness to a point, it's nothing compared to my own, which can cure a wound or illness entirely. The old man is just one person my magic has saved today. The dwarves though do not have such magic or responsibilities, only their own willpower and strength. Nothing ties them back—except perhaps fear or dread.

"My lady," a young girl's voice calls to me from nearby, shaking my concentration from the dwarves. I look at the young shemlen, the girl perhaps only five years old. Her blond braids frame her white face and the blue gems that form her pupils eye me anxiously. "My mother…" she whimpers and glances at the woman with the burns, who's lying on the ground, curled up in pain.

"I'll be right there." I insist.

It looks like my curiosity will have to wait.

* * *

"It's been a long day," Bard says from the shadows as he joins our group at the main campfire that night, three grey mugs in his hands. He looks to Legolas, Tauriel, and me. All three of us are sitting on a log beside the fire, watching him quietly. "The three of you deserve a good rest. Here." He passes each of us a mug, which I find to be full of some dark liquid I assume to be ale. My nose only confirms it.

"Ma serannas," I say to him and take a gulp gratefully. It's not half bad. Better than Oghren's odd and questionable brew.

Legolas and Tauriel hesitate before taking a sip, the smell possibly discouraging them, and then lower the mugs into their laps, apparently not as impressed.

"I dread to think what may have happened if it were not for your magic," Bard continues and sits down beside two other shemlen who have also gathered around the fire, the flames casting shadows on his rugged features. "Many of the men and women here now owe you their lives. And I know they will not soon forget it."

"Hear! Hear!" an older man from across the fire says and raises his mug. Several others do as well nearby, cheer, and then they all take a swig of their drinks. Bard chuckles and I shift in my spot awkwardly.

A gentleman seated a few steps away from us clears his throat in the passing silence, drawing everyone's attention. "Never did I think the elves would lend their assistance to us in our most dire time of need," he says, his weary, brown eyes on the flames. "It is… comforting to be proven otherwise."

I fidget with my mug and stare down at the ground, feeling more uncomfortable with each passing word from the shem's flabbing lips, bidding inwardly for an opportunity to arise to allow a swift escape to my bedroll for the night. _Creators, this is not my element. Tamlen must be laughing hysterically right now. _

"Are you well, friend?" Bard asks and I jolt. I look up to see everyone staring at me. Their brows are furrowed with what appears to be concern. "You look pale."

My jaw drops and my gaze shifts around the group. "I… am fine," I answer and purse my lips. "I'm simply… not accustomed to mingling with… _humans_," I mutter.

Bard blinks a few times and nods. "Understandable," he concedes and everyone relaxes. Bard leans back in his spot, his gaze still fixated on me with wonder. "You have an accent I'm unfamiliar with," he states. "Where do you hail from?"

"Fereldan—a land across the sea."

His eyebrows rise. "You are far from home then. What has brought you to Esgaroth?"

I scoff and shake my head, grasping tightly onto my mug. "I wonder that now myself."

* * *

A deep breath escapes my lips as I fire yet another arrow into the tree I've been utilizing as a target the past two days. The arrowhead loudly pierces the bark, hitting the dead center of the trunk and my intended mark beside four of my other arrows. Several others holes are visible on the surface around them, making the tree look more like a giant wooden pin cushion than well… a tree trunk. But it is necessary. How else am I to let out my frustration after being stuck tending to a bunch of shemlen for three whole days? I can't exactly talk about it with anyone else here. I am, after all, the only elf here whose dealt with other shem of a less caring nature toward my kind. I don't expect others to understand.

As I draw another arrow, I hear someone approach from the direction of camp.

"Mind if I join you?" a familiar voice speaks up. I glance over my shoulder and lower my bow to see Legolas, a slight smile on his handsome elven face.

"Go ahead," I answer and he takes the spot beside me.

I take aim, and shoot the trunk again, my shot hitting the spot directly next to my last one. Legolas draws his bow and shoots one as well. His arrow splits my last arrow in half. I narrow my eyes at the protruding feathers and then turn to him and we meet eye contact.

He's smirking.

I roll my eyes and quickly shoot another one. It effortlessly splits his arrow right down the middle, sending a few pieces off to the side because of its force.

With my eyebrows raised and the corner of my lips curled up triumphantly, I look at him. He's eyeing the target with noticeable surprise. He then looks to me and nods once before looking back at the target.

I stifle a laugh and smile as I prepare to shoot once more.

Before I can shoot, I hear another person approach. "At it again, I see," Bard says as he steps onto our range. Legolas and I lower our weapons and look at him. He bows his head to me and then steps up to Legolas. "I bring news," he tells him. "I've sent a messenger to your father requesting aid as you suggested. If he agrees to my request, he should be here in a few days time."

My eyes widen. "Thrandruil?" I whisper and turn to Legolas, unable to mask my shock and alarm. "You had him send for your father?"

He nods and one of his eyebrows arches up. "Yes, does this trouble you?"

I shake my head and look down at the ground. "No."

_Yes._

Legolas eyes me warily.

I look away and go back to shooting my arrows.

It's simply a gut feeling, but I sense that come a few days, there's going to be trouble. And not the fun kind.

_Creator's have mercy..._


End file.
